There are a few spent purple blooms clinging to the rose of sharon.
The chimes are playing a tune only the wind can make.
And the insects are singing the last of summer's bug song.
It is chilly enough today to wear a sweater and long pants.
I sit on the porch and write while the cake bakes.
The deck and yard and basement can wait.
The friends coming over won't mind.
The only thing really necessary for tonight's gathering is wood for the fire.
I'll celebrate this moment.